


with you in the sun, the shade is left for me

by abstractionofthevoid



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (light hurt/comfort?), Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Multi, Other, POV Third Person Limited, Pining, Romance, brief mention of smoking, but it's very tender, hand kissing, pick your pronouns, rated T for A Swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractionofthevoid/pseuds/abstractionofthevoid
Summary: Gerry knows what he has to do. He knows what kind of life he's leading. Still, there’s nothing wrong with helping people out now and then, even if they aren’t, strictly speaking, part of the bigger picture.(or: in which Gerry wants things he cannot have)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Original Character(s), Gerard Keay/Reader, Gerard Keay/Unspecified Character, Gerard Keay/anyone you'd like
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. she/her

**Author's Note:**

> the oc is intentionally pretty vague, partially so you can interpret it as a reader insert, but largely because i really wanted to focus on gerry. the next two chapters are two other versions— one with he/him pronouns, and one with they/them. feel free to imagine whoever you'd like, whether it be yourself or any other character. 
> 
> this is transparently inspired by ep 48, and a love of gerard keay. mild spoilers for entity names and some implications regarding the stories of gerard and gertrude. 
> 
> the title is taken from Glad Rags' Ode to a Dandelion.

He does his best to ignore her. He really does. But his eyes keep being drawn to her, and it takes him a few moments to realize Gertude has snapped at him to _'pay attention'_ and ' _you know what's at stake here'._ And he does know. Of course he does. But as important as the big picture is, it's not in his nature to completely ignore the little things. And his eyes keep wandering to her, because he Knows she's been marked by something, and maybe, _maybe_ he could help her.

When they retire to their hotel rooms later (earlier than usual— It’s been a long day of travel for both of them, and Gerry claimed he had been having one of his headaches), he goes back to the cafe. She isn’t there anymore, of course, and he realizes he has to make a choice. It’s an easy choice, and he’d already made his choice, really, when he resolved to slip away from the hotel.

He Looks, and he’s a little startled at how easy it is. She hasn’t gone far— just to the park a few blocks down. He makes his way there, and he finds her sitting on a bench, absorbed in a book. She doesn’t look bothered, and he wonders if he’s wrong. But of course he isn’t, because he still feels the touch of Something on her, maybe the Lonely or the Stranger. It’s hard to say. 

She looks his way for some reason, and it is far too late to hide how he had been staring at her. He decides it’ll be worse if he leaves now and she sees him again later (he is hardly inconspicuous), so he walks over to her as casually and normally as he can. 

Her eyes can't seem to settle on him. They look from his hair to his clothes to the eyes on his face to the eyes on his hands, and he knows he's something of a spectacle, he doesn't really care, but he gives her a moment to take him in. Her gaze settles on his eyes - his _real_ ones - and it is refreshing to feel seen, in the normal way, by a normal person, instead of Seen. 

"Is there something I can help you with?" She asks. "Do I...know you?" She continues, after he hesitates. Her name comes to his mind, unbidden, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to frighten her.

"No. You can call me Gerry, though. If you'd like."

She hesitates, frowns, as if there's something she doesn't understand.

"Okay Gerry. What can I do for you?"

His mouth goes dry, because he isn't sure what to say. Certainly there's nothing appropriate to be said, here, nothing _normal._

"I, uh...I like your coat," he says lamely.

She narrows her eyes a little, trying to discern his intent. She decides his comment is harmless enough, apparently, because she gives him a small smile and says, "Thank you," in a quiet voice. He gives a small nod, and walks away, but he doesn’t go far. He pulls out a cigarette and tries to look as if he is simply a man trying to enjoy a day in the park. As far as he can tell, she’s no longer concerned with him, and she goes back to whatever she had been doing. Writing, he thinks. 

She eventually tires of that, and moves on with her day. He follows her at a great distance, idly wondering how far he’s going to pursue this. It isn’t as if he can do this all day; Gertude would kill him, and he’s not sure it’s useful to follow her for very long anyway. 

He feels like a creep. There's no way to not feel like a creep in this situation: he's a man following someone down the street. He's an avatar of the Beholding, to some extent, and he's, _well_ . Beholding. She hasn't noticed him, and thankfully she doesn't seem to notice she's being followed at all. Otherwise he'd probably wind up feeding the damn entity that has laid claim to him. He feels like a creep, but he reminds himself that he's doing this for her own good. He's _pretty_ sure he is, anyway.

There is the chance that he is in fact only acting for the sake of the Ceaseless Watcher, that his drive to pursue her was out of hunger, that his gaze would drive her to paranoia. He doesn't think that is the case. He feels in control. But isn't that so often the case, he thinks, for those who utterly lack control? 

She turns a corner unexpectedly, and she’s gone, not simply from his view, but from his very perception. He swears and rushes forward to catch up, just in case he’s mistaken. But he doesn’t see her anywhere, so he Looks again. She’s still nowhere, and dread wells up within him. He keeps Looking, and he learns her favorite color, her favorite movie, how she got that childhood scar, her family— he learns the specifics of her: far, far too much knowledge he shouldn’t have, but he doesn’t know _where_ she is.

Until he does. He gets the faintest feeling and races towards it, following the shape of her that has become engraved in his mind. He isn’t sure what does it— he doesn’t know if he has pushed his way into the domain of whatever’s got her, or if he’s managed to pull her out, but he finds her. He finds her, and he grabs her hand, and she must’ve seen or felt something terrible, because she lets him pull her away without question, and they run and run and run until things feel normal.

They eventually stop, and they’re both breathing pretty hard. He takes a moment, crouches down to catch his breath, before he stands up and looks at her, intending to see if she’s alright. He finds himself face to face with her, closer than he intended.

He's staring into her eyes for way too long, and he idly wonders if he's always thought eyes were this pretty or if it's just another way in which the Ceaseless Watcher has thoroughly fucked him up. She’s still obviously terrified, and he’s shocked when she throws herself into him and wraps her arms around his torso. He returns the hug awkwardly, not entirely uncomfortable, but he doesn't want to let go of her, because he's admittedly really touch starved, and he can't shake the feeling that she isn't quite safe yet. She's shaking a little, pushing hesitant breaths from her lungs far too quickly.

"Hey now, you're alright. You're fine. Promise."

His voice seems to ground her, and she hugs him more tightly. His heart flutters a little.

"I was so fucking _scared,_ " she says into his chest quietly. "Everything was so _wrong_ , I couldn't even think. I don't know how you _moved_."

He presses her into his chest, trying to comfort her, and pats her head.

"Lots of practice," he says. "You get better at it." That feels like a lie as he says it, but he doesn’t know what else he should have said. She pulls back from him a bit, looks up at him with those enthralling eyes again, and it doesn't take any sort of special power to see the stars in them. They aren't meant for him, not really; she's looking at some version of him that's a lot more heroic than the reality. 

…

He winds up walking her home. It's the least he can do. Well, he's done a lot for her already, really, but he feels like he owes her as much safety as he can manage to give. Or maybe he just wants to walk her home.

He expects her to ask questions, to demand explanations and answers that he’s not prepared to give and that she’s better off not knowing, but she doesn’t ask anything of him. She doesn’t ask how he found her or how he knew something would happen to her. In fact, she says relatively little on the trip, though she does cling to him the entire time. He’s not sure whether it’s simply out of fear or if it’s something else.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to repay you?” She asks, as they come to her apartment.

She had tried to convince him into dinner, or a coffee, or _something_ , but he refused, knowing how fruitless an endeavor that would be. 

“No, you don’t owe me anything,” he says. She stands there, hesitating, before she makes up her mind and takes his hands in hers.  
  
“Well, thank you. I mean _really_ . I can’t express how much I mean that,” she says sincerely, and he knows enough of her to know that she does mean it, and that she wishes she could do more for him.  
  
He should go. He should. But her hands are very warm, and he figures he might as well enjoy this while he can.

She sees that he isn’t leaving immediately, and that he isn’t pulling away, so instead of staring at him awkwardly, she carefully lifts his hands up so that she can examine them. 

“You’ve got lovely hands,” she says seriously, matter-of-factly, as she looks at them. 

“Yeah?” He says stupidly.

She moves slowly, slow enough that he could easily stop her. She presses her lips to his palms unhurriedly, with an intimacy and care that shouldn’t be possible for a stranger. She flips his hands over, runs her lips over the backs, then the tips, then the joints, presses soft kisses into them— and he feels a perverse sort of joy when he notices she's focusing on the eyes tattooed there. 

"I...thank you, Gerry," she says, very quiet. 

"I have to go," he says, but he doesn't dare to move; he wants this moment to last as long as possible.

"Is there...some way I could get in touch with you? So I could see you again?"

He looks down into her eyes, which are bright and hopeful, and really just altogether too lovely. He allows himself to imagine, for a moment, a life with her, with someone who knows so little of the dark world he's involved in, and he imagines that they would be quite happy. He allows himself to fall in love with her a little, and he runs a hand over her hair and face, tilts her chin up so that he can place a kiss on her forehead. 

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he says. "It's complicated. I'm complicated."

He doesn't say _'maybe someday',_ even if he does allow himself to think it a little. He could find her again in the future, he Knows her. Maybe he and Gertude will find a way to stop everything, maybe there's a future where he's allowed to be _normal._

He thinks of his mother, what he's seen and done, what he knows and will never be able to _un_ know, and he sighs. There's a feeling in his gut that tells him whatever ending this has, whatever ending _he_ has, it won't be easy, and it probably won't be good, and he feels so _tired_ of it all. 

He desperately wishes he could rest here, with this person he'd come to love far too quickly, but there's far too many problems in the world, and he could never live with himself, even if, somehow, the Beholding would _let_ him live.

Still, she doesn't let go of his hand, though she looks almost as unhappy as he feels. He half-expects her to protest, to insist on some way to keep in touch, or see him again, or something _more_. He might even agree if she did. But she doesn’t know him at all, really, and he sees her resignation, her disappointment that fades into acceptance. 

“Well, you know where I live. I won’t forget you. Not ever,” she says, finally letting go of him. “You’d be hard to forget. So, if anything changes…” she says, smiling. 

“Maybe someday,” he says aloud, knowing with certainty as he says it, that it is a lie. “Take care.” He turns away from her quickly, before he does anything too rash.

He will later do his best to forget the specifics of her, but he tries to hold onto the rest: that feeling of being a hero, for a moment, of her lips running over his hand, of loving someone and being loved a little. Later, he will still hold tight onto the memory of her, ground himself with the warmth of it. 

The comfort it brings is well worth the lecture he gets from Gertude when he finally returns to the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to tell me if you note any errors; i will try to fix those accordingly! please feel free to let me know if i've missed any tags as well.
> 
> it has been a long time since i've seriously written fanfiction, longer since i've finished anything, longer since i've posted anything. but i fell in a little in love with gerry keay, and so i wanted someone else to fall in love with him a little too— and for him to have the opportunity to love someone else. he certainly deserves it, because i imagine he's had very little love in his life


	2. he/him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing too different from the previous chapter. he/him pronouns, and i've changed some of the wording for the sake of clarity.

Gerry does his best to ignore him. He really does. But his eyes keep being drawn to the man, and it takes Gerry a few moments to realize Gertude has snapped at him to  _ 'pay attention'  _ and '  _ you know what's at stake here'.  _ And he does know. Of course he does. But as important as the big picture is, it's not in his nature to completely ignore the little things. And his eyes keep wandering to  _ him _ , because he Knows he's been marked by something, and maybe,  _ maybe  _ he could help this man.

When they retire to their hotel rooms later (earlier than usual— It’s been a long day of travel for both of them, and Gerry claimed he had been having one of his headaches), he goes back to the cafe.  _ He _ isn’t there anymore, of course, and Gerry realizes he has to make a choice. It’s an easy choice, and he’d already made his choice, really, when he resolved to slip away from the hotel.

He Looks, and he’s a little startled at how easy it is. The person he seeks hasn’t gone far— just to the park a few blocks down. Gerry makes his way there, and he finds him sitting on a bench, absorbed in a book. He doesn’t look bothered, and Gerry wonders if he’s wrong. But of course he isn’t, because he still feels the touch of Something on him, maybe the Lonely or the Stranger. It’s hard to say. 

He looks Gerry's way for some reason, and it is far too late for him to hide how he had been staring. He decides it’ll be worse if he leaves now and is caught staring again later (he is hardly inconspicuous), so he walks over as casually and normally as he can. 

The man’s eyes can't seem to settle on Gerry. They look from his hair to his clothes to the eyes on his face to the eyes on his hands, and Gerry knows he's something of a spectacle, he doesn't really care, but he gives the man a moment to take him in. His gaze settles on Gerry's eyes - his  _ real  _ ones - and it is refreshing to feel seen, in the normal way, by a normal person, instead of Seen. 

"Is there something I can help you with?" The man asks. "Do I...know you?" He continues, after Gerry hesitates. His name comes to Gerry's mind, unbidden, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to frighten him.

"No. You can call me Gerry, though. If you'd like."

He hesitates, frowns, as if there's something he doesn't understand.

"Okay Gerry. What can I do for you?"

Gerry's mouth goes dry, because he isn't sure what to say. Certainly there's nothing appropriate to be said, here, nothing  _ normal. _

"I, uh...I like your coat," he says lamely.

The owner of the coat in question narrows his eyes a little, trying to discern Gerry's intent. He decides Gerry's comment is harmless enough, apparently, because he gives him a small smile and says, "Thank you," in a quiet voice. Gerry gives a small nod, and walks away, but he doesn’t go far. He pulls out a cigarette and tries to look as if he is simply a man trying to enjoy a day in the park. As far as he can tell, the man is no longer concerned with him, and he goes back to whatever he had been doing. Writing, he thinks.

He eventually tires of writing, and moves on with his day. Gerry follows at a great distance, idly wondering how far he’s going to pursue this. It isn’t as if he can do this all day; Gertude would kill him, and he’s not sure it’s useful to follow him for very long anyway. 

He feels like a creep. There's no way to not feel like a creep in this situation: he's a man following someone down the street. He's an avatar of the Beholding, to some extent, and he's,  _ well  _ . Beholding. The man hasn't noticed him, and thankfully he doesn't seem to notice he's being followed at all. Otherwise Gerry’ll probably wind up feeding the damn entity that has laid claim to him. He feels like a creep, but he reminds himself that he's doing this for the man’s own good. He's  _ pretty  _ sure he is, anyway.

There is the chance that he is in fact only acting for the sake of the Ceaseless Watcher, that his drive to pursue this man was out of hunger, that his gaze would drive him to paranoia. He doesn't think that is the case. He feels in control. But isn't that so often the case, he thinks, for those who utterly lack control? 

He turns a corner unexpectedly, and he’s gone, not simply from his view, but from Gerry’s very perception. He swears and rushes forward to catch up, just in case he’s mistaken. But he doesn’t see him anywhere, so he Looks again. He’s still nowhere, and dread wells up within him. Gerry keeps Looking, and he learns his favorite color, his favorite movie, how he got that childhood scar, his family— he learns the specifics of this manr: far, far too much knowledge he shouldn’t have, but he doesn’t know  _ where  _ he is.

Until he does. He gets the faintest feeling and races towards it, following the shape of the person that has become engraved in his mind. He isn’t sure what does it— he doesn’t know if he has pushed his way into the domain of whatever’s got him, or if he’s managed to pull him out, but he finds him. Gerry finds him, and he grabs his hand, and he must’ve seen or felt something terrible, because the man lets Gerry pull him away without question, and they run and run and run until things feel normal.

They eventually stop, and they’re both breathing pretty hard. He takes a moment, crouches down to catch his breath, before he stands up and looks at the man he’s just saved, intending to see if he’s alright. He finds himself face to face with him, closer than he intended.

Gerry's staring into his eyes for way too long, and he idly wonders if he's always thought eyes were this pretty or if it's just another way in which the Ceaseless Watcher has thoroughly fucked him up. He’s still obviously terrified, and Gerry’s shocked when the man throws himself into him and wraps his arms around his torso. He returns the hug awkwardly, not entirely uncomfortable, but he doesn't want to let go, because he's admittedly really touch starved, and he can't shake the feeling that this man isn't quite safe yet: he's shaking a little, pushing hesitant breaths from his lungs far too quickly.

"Hey now, you're alright. You're fine. Promise."

Gerry’s voice seems to ground him, and the man hugs him more tightly. His heart flutters a little.

"I was so fucking _ scared,  _ " he says into Gerry’s chest quietly. "Everything was so  _ wrong  _ , I couldn't even think. I don't know how you  _ moved  _ ."

Gerry presses him into his chest, trying to comfort him, and pats his head.

"Lots of practice," he says. "You get better at it." That feels like a lie as he says it, but he doesn’t know what else he should have said. The man pulls back from him a bit, looks up at him with those enthralling eyes again, and it doesn't take any sort of special power to see the stars in them. They aren't meant for him, not really; he's looking at some version of Gerry that's a lot more heroic than the reality. 

…

Gerry winds up walking him home. It's the least he can do. Well, he's done a lot already, really, but he feels like he owes him as much safety as he can manage to give. Or maybe he just wants to walk him home.

Gerry expects him to ask questions, to demand explanations and answers that he’s not prepared to give and that he’s better off not knowing, but he doesn’t ask anything of him. He doesn’t ask how Gerry found him or how he knew something would happen to him. In fact, he says relatively little on the trip, though he does cling to Gerry the entire time. He’s not sure whether it’s simply out of fear or if it’s something else.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to repay you?” He asks, as they come to his apartment.

He had tried to convince Gerry into dinner, or a coffee, or  _ something  _ , but he refused, knowing how fruitless an endeavor that would be. 

“No, you don’t owe me anything,” he says. The man stands there, hesitating, before he makes up his mind and takes Gerry’s hands in his.

“Well, thank you. I mean  _ really _ . I can’t express how much I mean that,” he says sincerely, and Gerry knows enough of him to know that he does mean it, and that he wishes he could do more for him.

He should go. He should. But his hands are very warm, and Gerry figures he might as well enjoy this while he can.

He sees that Gerry isn’t leaving immediately, and that he isn’t pulling away, so instead of staring at him awkwardly, he carefully lifts Gerry’s hands up so that he can examine them. 

“You’ve got lovely hands,” he says seriously, matter-of-factly, as he looks at them. 

“Yeah?” Gerry says stupidly.

He moves slowly, slow enough that Gerry could easily stop him. He presses his lips to Gerry’s palms unhurriedly, with an intimacy and care that shouldn’t be possible for a stranger. He flips his hands over, runs his lips over the backs, then the tips, then the joints, presses soft kisses into them— and Gerry feels a perverse sort of joy when he notices him focusing on the eyes tattooed there. 

"I...thank you, Gerry," he says, very quiet. 

"I have to go," he says, but he doesn't dare to move; he wants this moment to last as long as possible.

"Is there...some way I could get in touch with you? So I could see you again?"

Gerry looks down into his eyes, which are bright and hopeful, and really just altogether too lovely. He allows himself to imagine, for a moment, a life with this man, with someone who knows so little of the dark world he's involved in, and he imagines that they would be quite happy. He allows himself to fall in love a little, and he runs a hand over his hair and face, tilts his chin up so that he can place a kiss on the man’s forehead. 

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he says. "It's complicated. I'm complicated."

He doesn't say  _ 'maybe someday',  _ even if he does allow himself to think it a little. Gerry could find him again in the future, he Knows him. Maybe he and Gertude will find a way to stop everything, maybe there's a future where he's allowed to be  _ normal. _

He thinks of his mother, what he's seen and done, what he knows and will never be able to  _ un  _ know, and he sighs. There's a feeling in his gut that tells him whatever ending this has, whatever ending  _ he  _ has, it won't be easy, and it probably won't be good, and he feels so  _ tired  _ of it all. 

He desperately wishes he could rest here, with this person he'd come to love far too quickly, but there's far too many problems in the world, and he could never live with himself, even if, somehow, the Beholding would  _ let  _ him live.

Still, he doesn't let go of Gerry’s hand, though he looks almost as unhappy as Gerry feels. He half-expects him to protest, to insist on some way to keep in touch, or see him again, or something  _ more _ . Gerry might even agree if he did. But the man doesn’t know him at all, really, and Gerry sees his resignation, his disappointment that fades into acceptance. 

“Well, you know where I live. I won’t forget you. Not ever,” he says, finally letting go of him. “You’d be hard to forget. So, if anything changes…” he says, smiling. 

“Maybe someday,” he says aloud, knowing with certainty as he says it, that it is a lie. “Take care.” He turns away quickly, before he does anything too rash.

Gerry will later do his best to forget the specifics of him, but he tries to hold onto the rest: that feeling of being a hero, for a moment, of his lips running over Gerry’s hand, of loving someone and being loved a little. Later, he will still hold tight onto the memory of  _ him _ , ground himself with the warmth of it. 

The comfort it brings is well worth the lecture he gets from Gertude when he finally returns to the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to tell me if you note any errors; i will try to fix those accordingly! please feel free to let me know if i've missed any tags as well.
> 
> it has been a long time since i've seriously written fanfiction, longer since i've finished anything, longer since i've posted anything. but i fell in a little in love with gerry keay, and so i wanted someone else to fall in love with him a little too— and for him to have the opportunity to love someone else. he certainly deserves it, because i imagine he's had very little love in his life


	3. they/them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they/them pronouns

He does his best to ignore them. He really does. But his eyes keep being drawn to them, and it takes him a few moments to realize Gertude has snapped at him to  _ 'pay attention'  _ and '  _ you know what's at stake here'.  _ And he does know. Of course he does. But as important as the big picture is, it's not in his nature to completely ignore the little things. And his eyes keep wandering to them, because he Knows they’ve been marked by something, and maybe,  _ maybe  _ he could help them.

When Gerry and Gertude retire to their hotel rooms later (earlier than usual— It’s been a long day of travel for both of them, and Gerry claimed he had been having one of his headaches), he goes back to the cafe. The person he saw isn’t there anymore, of course, and he realizes he has to make a choice. It’s an easy choice, and he’d already made his choice, really, when he resolved to slip away from the hotel.

He Looks, and he’s a little startled at how easy it is. They haven’t gone far— just to the park a few blocks down. He makes his way there, and he finds them sitting on a bench, absorbed in a book. They don’t look bothered, and he wonders if he’s wrong. But of course he isn’t, because he still feels the touch of Something on them, maybe the Lonely or the Stranger. It’s hard to say. 

They look his way for some reason, and it is far too late to hide how he had been staring at them. He decides it’ll be worse if he leaves now and they see him again later (he is hardly inconspicuous), so he walks over to them as casually and normally as he can. 

Their eyes can't seem to settle on him. They look from his hair to his clothes to the eyes on his face to the eyes on his hands, and he knows he's something of a spectacle, he doesn't really care, but he gives them a moment to take him in. Their gaze settles on his eyes - his  _ real  _ ones - and it is refreshing to feel seen, in the normal way, by a normal person, instead of Seen. 

"Is there something I can help you with?" They ask. "Do I...know you?" They continue, after he hesitates. Their name comes to his mind, unbidden, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to frighten them.

"No. You can call me Gerry, though. If you'd like."

They hesitate, frown, as if there's something they don't understand.

"Okay Gerry. What can I do for you?"

His mouth goes dry, because he isn't sure what to say. Certainly there's nothing appropriate to be said, here, nothing  _ normal. _

"I, uh...I like your coat," he says lamely.

They narrow their eyes a little, trying to discern his intent. They decide his comment is harmless enough, apparently, because they give him a small smile and say, "Thank you," in a quiet voice. He gives a small nod, and walks away, but he doesn’t go far. He pulls out a cigarette and tries to look as if he is simply a man trying to enjoy a day in the park. As far as he can tell, they’re no longer concerned with him, and they go back to whatever they had been doing. Writing, he thinks. 

They eventually tire of that, and move on with their day. He follows them at a great distance, idly wondering how far he’s going to pursue this. It isn’t as if he can do this all day; Gertude would kill him, and he’s not sure it’s useful to follow them for very long anyway. 

He feels like a creep. There's no way to not feel like a creep in this situation: he's a man following someone down the street. He's an avatar of the Beholding, to some extent, and he's,  _ well  _ . Beholding. They haven't noticed him, and thankfully they don't seem to notice they’re being followed at all. Otherwise he'd probably wind up feeding the damn entity that has laid claim to him. He feels like a creep, but he reminds himself that he's doing this for their own good. He's  _ pretty  _ sure he is, anyway.

There is the chance that he is in fact only acting for the sake of the Ceaseless Watcher, that his drive to pursue them was out of hunger, that his gaze would drive them to paranoia. He doesn't think that is the case. He feels in control. But isn't that so often the case, he thinks, for those who utterly lack control? 

They turn a corner unexpectedly, and they’re gone, not simply from his view, but from his very perception. He swears and rushes forward to catch up, just in case he’s mistaken. But he doesn’t see them anywhere, so he Looks again. They’re still nowhere, and dread wells up within him. He keeps Looking, and he learns their favorite color, their favorite movie, how they got that childhood scar, their family— he learns the specifics of them: far, far too much knowledge he shouldn’t have, but he doesn’t know  _ where  _ they are.

Until he does. He gets the faintest feeling and races towards it, following the shape of the person that has become engraved in his mind. He isn’t sure what does it— he doesn’t know if he has pushed his way into the domain of whatever’s got them, or if he’s managed to pull them out, but he finds them. He finds them, and he grabs their hand, and they must’ve seen or felt something terrible, because they let him pull them away without question, and the two of them run and run and run until things feel normal.

They eventually stop, and they’re both breathing pretty hard. He takes a moment, crouches down to catch his breath, before he stands up and looks at them, intending to see if they’re alright. He finds himself face to face with them, closer than he intended.

He's staring into their eyes for way too long, and he idly wonders if he's always thought eyes were this pretty or if it's just another way in which the Ceaseless Watcher has thoroughly fucked him up. They’re still obviously terrified, and he’s shocked when they throw themself into him and wrap their arms around his torso. He returns the hug awkwardly, not entirely uncomfortable, but he doesn't want to let go of them, because he's admittedly really touch starved, and he can't shake the feeling that they aren’t quite safe yet. They’re shaking a little, pushing hesitant breaths from their lungs far too quickly.

"Hey now, you're alright. You're fine. Promise."

His voice seems to ground them, and they hug him more tightly. His heart flutters a little.

"I was so fucking _ scared,  _ " they say into his chest quietly. "Everything was so  _ wrong  _ , I couldn't even think. I don't know how you  _ moved  _ ."

He presses them into his chest, trying to comfort them, and pats their head.

"Lots of practice," he says. "You get better at it." That feels like a lie as he says it, but he doesn’t know what else he should have said. They pull back from him a bit, look up at him with those enthralling eyes again, and it doesn't take any sort of special power to see the stars in them. They aren't meant for him, not really; they’re looking at some version of him that's a lot more heroic than the reality. 

…

He winds up walking them home. It's the least he can do. Well, he's done a lot for them already, really, but he feels like he owes them as much safety as he can manage to give. Or maybe he just wants to walk them home.

He expects them to ask questions, to demand explanations and answers that he’s not prepared to give and that they’re better off not knowing, but they don't ask anything of him. They don't ask how he found them or how he knew something would happen to them. In fact, they say relatively little on the trip, though they do cling to him the entire time. He’s not sure whether it’s simply out of fear or if it’s something else.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to repay you?” They ask, as they come to their apartment.

They had tried to convince him into dinner, or a coffee, or  _ something  _ , but he refused, knowing how fruitless an endeavor that would be. 

“No, you don’t owe me anything,” he says. They stand there, hesitating, before they make up their mind and take his hands in theirs.

“Well, thank you. I mean  _ really  _ . I can’t express how much I mean that,” they say sincerely, and he knows enough of them to know that they do mean it, and that they wish they could do more for him.

He should go. He should. But their hands are very warm, and he figures he might as well enjoy this while he can.

They see that he isn’t leaving immediately, and that he isn’t pulling away, so instead of staring at him awkwardly, they carefully lift his hands up so that they can examine them. 

“You’ve got lovely hands,” they say seriously, matter-of-factly, as they look at them. 

“Yeah?” He says stupidly.

They move slowly, slow enough that he could easily stop them. They press their lips to his palms unhurriedly, with an intimacy and care that shouldn’t be possible for a stranger. They flip his hands over, run their lips over the backs, then the tips, then the joints, press soft kisses into them— and he feels a perverse sort of joy when he notices they’re focusing on the eyes tattooed there. 

"I...thank you, Gerry," they say, very quiet. 

"I have to go," he says, but he doesn't dare to move; he wants this moment to last as long as possible.

"Is there...some way I could get in touch with you? So I could see you again?"

He looks down into their eyes, which are bright and hopeful, and really just altogether too lovely. He allows himself to imagine, for a moment, a life with them, with someone who knows so little of the dark world he's involved in, and he imagines that they would be quite happy. He allows himself to fall in love with them a little, and he runs a hand over their hair and face, tilts their chin up so that he can place a kiss on their forehead. 

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he says. "It's complicated. I'm complicated."

He doesn't say  _ 'maybe someday',  _ even if he does allow himself to think it a little. He could find them again in the future, he Knows them. Maybe he and Gertude will find a way to stop everything, maybe there's a future where he's allowed to be  _ normal. _

He thinks of his mother, what he's seen and done, what he knows and will never be able to  _ un  _ know, and he sighs. There's a feeling in his gut that tells him whatever ending this has, whatever ending  _ he  _ has, it won't be easy, and it probably won't be good, and he feels so  _ tired  _ of it all. 

He desperately wishes he could rest here, with this person he'd come to love far too quickly, but there's far too many problems in the world, and he could never live with himself, even if, somehow, the Beholding would  _ let  _ him live.

Still, they don't let go of his hand, though they look almost as unhappy as he feels. He half-expects them to protest, to insist on some way to keep in touch, or see him again, or something  _ more  _ . He might even agree if they did. But they don't know him at all, really, and he sees their resignation, their disappointment that fades into acceptance. 

“Well, you know where I live. I won’t forget you. Not ever,” they say, finally letting go of him. “You’d be hard to forget. So, if anything changes…” they say, smiling. 

“Maybe someday,” he says aloud, knowing with certainty as he says it, that it is a lie. “Take care.” He turns away from them quickly, before he does anything too rash.

He will later do his best to forget the specifics of them, but he tries to hold onto the rest: that feeling of being a hero, for a moment, of their lips running over his hand, of loving someone and being loved a little. Later, he will still hold tight onto the memory of them, ground himself with the warmth of it. 

The comfort it brings is well worth the lecture he gets from Gertude when he finally returns to the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to tell me if you note any errors; i will try to fix those accordingly! please feel free to let me know if i've missed any tags as well.
> 
> it has been a long time since i've seriously written fanfiction, longer since i've finished anything, longer since i've posted anything. but i fell in a little in love with gerry keay, and so i wanted someone else to fall in love with him a little too— and for him to have the opportunity to love someone else. he certainly deserves it, because i imagine he's had very little love in his life


End file.
